To Make 'Nothing' Real
by atreriaestus
Summary: Saix/Demyx. No pulse. Slow blood. Little breath. The moon beckons the sea and the water can only cradle.


**A/N:** Jesus, I'm having trouble figuring this stuff out. If you can't tell, this is the first thing I've submitted. It's confusing the hell out of me. Where the fsck is the ... well, nevermind! Anyway, this is poetic Saix x Demyx drabble. One of my favorite KHII pairings. Yessss. Let the mush begin.

**Disclaiminess:** All respective characters belong to Nomura-Sama (worship him! Now!) and Squeeeenixney. Yes. Squeenixney. xD

**Rating:** Eh, let's say ... late teen? There's some quiet-gay-sex themes, but ... shhhhhh. They're supposed to be quiet. x3

I know everyone says 'R&R', but ... screw it, I don't care if you do.

It wasn't their fault.

Blame the tides, those surging swells pummeling on top of each other in fierce torrents so that all were lost in the foamy billows. The oceans, in all their magnificent grandeur hide tales no man would even dream of in its salted depths. Every hard crash against the rocks left a little less and pulled away a little more. Seas stripped everything yet would never reveal their own secrets.

Blame the time of day. The day controlled the tides, told them when to rise and when to fall. The moon waxed and waned, and the water followed along like an obedient little slave, even as man saw the place beyond her shores a great mystery. The real mystery was the moon …

Blame the tides. Blame the time of day. Blame the time of year, gravity, or the tilt of the Earth, just don't …

Just don't blame them.

Perhaps it was majesty or even divine will, no matter how arbitrary that seemed. Of all those lost souls dawdling in darkness, why were they the ones chosen for such … complicated matters? Did some higher force believe they could handle it? Both males wishes someone-or-another did not trust them so much.

Maybe there was that red thread twined about the two, tugging and tightening until limbs turned blue, like some old fable that neither artist nor artisan believed. It was simply pretty words and pretty faith to keep the weak going strong. It was a teenager's wet dream and an excuse to be with someone.

Maybe it was perfection, like it was all too real and all to like that moon and ocean. Whatever the moon beckoned forth, the ocean gladly accepted, cradling to fit the moon's needs. If the moon decided to bend down from heaven, the waves would raise up to embrace him and soften the fall. And perhaps just the way the tears craned up for the satellite was just enough to satiate something on the inside.

Maybe it was majesty or divine will. Maybe there was red thread, and maybe it was perfection. Then again, maybe it wasn't.

But one thing was certain: it wasn't their fault.

"Have you ever noticed the creases of your face don't leave unless you're with The Superior?"

It was breathless, but not oxygenless. It was weary, but not tired. It was both heated and cool all bundled up and rolled together without mixing, like a delicate dance, drawling watchers in with its beauty and not letting them leave, for fear leaving without completion would leave that innate sadness captive like a butterfly on their shoulder.

And there was only a blunt "no" muttered when halfway unwanted digits brushed: above brows, under eyes down cheeks, across lips from corner to corner, tracing those hard, unattractive wrinkles. It wasn't that the touch was inept or unjustified … it was just uncomfortable, peculiar, even … arcane, despite intertwined limbs and concaving chests and all the heat in the world that would never quell the cold.

"Why is that?"

It wasn't stirring or anything on the inside. He knew there should be, something rising to the surface and all the protection muscles and ligaments could offer up wanting so badly to wrap around.

It wasn't melting or freezing. It wasn't the kind of connection that made knees go weak or toes curl. It was just instinct and copper, elements and salt.

There were no blissful moonlit waves, despite what one might think. No meaningless little kisses because … that all it would be: meaningless. There was no need to do something that had no purpose.

There were only ridden waves of pleasure, followed by crisp tranquility.

Barren. Despondent. And then … docile. It was only to tame tempers and to satisfy needs.

Not wants. Needs.

"Have you ever noticed your eyes always shine … except when you are with me?"

No romance. No games. Only stated fact. Only and observation with no conclusion, or a hypothesis still being tested. It was matter-of-fact, and they both hated it.

"Hate". A four letter word more powerful than any other. It was sworn to be the key to unlock every little secret.

But in spite of all that, the statement made the youth worm himself into uncomfortable comfort, as though maybe he actually felt something, as maybe there was something behind that smile …

But that was absurd. The elder could see behind those lies. And musicians were such good liars, after all.

"Of course I have."

And why is that?"

No curiosity or inquiry; just a meaningless space-filler, a reason to continue a conversation that should not exist in the first place.

"You're who makes it hurt the most…"

Silence. Not simple but not yet complicating. Simply existing.

"You're the one who makes 'nothing' real…"


End file.
